


Must Be Santa

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: One day, eight hours of community service.  How hard could it be?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyCyprus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCyprus/gifts).



Picset by LadyCyprus (thank you LC!)

* * *

 

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Tarth.”

The judge entered in a swirl of black robes and immediately headed towards the bench, gaze high and focused, but when she took a seat she fixed him with a hard look. That was it- no words, no formalities, none of the usual procedures.  But he knew that look, knew what she was thinking.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” he protested.

She rolled her eyes.

This happened all of the fucking time- people took one look at him and overreacted, it was the story of his entire damn life. Well... the first thing had been his fault, and that was the truth, but every single time after _that_ had been some cunt who overreacted.  And so he found himself repeatedly dragged back into court, the transgressions of his youth doomed to remain on his record for eternity; this time was no different. 

“Alright, show me the tape.” Watching the bailiff fire up the antiquated player so they could all see the video, he _knew_ Judge Tarth would come to the same conclusion. 

“This is complete bullshit.”

The judge shot him a look that could unequivocally be classified as _I will beat your ass right now, you know I can do it._ And she could, too, dammit.  He fell into almost-respectful silence as the convenience store video jumped to life.

It started unremarkably, with him standing in line behind a skittish old lady who hurried out of there as soon as she was done and Sandor stepped up to the counter to pay for his beer. The total came to $8.02- _two cents!-_ so he did what any normal person on the planet would do and reached for the ‘Need a Penny’ jar.

 _“You can’t do that,”_ the clerk had said.  There was no audio on the video but Sandor remembered, because that was what started the whole thing- this little prick’s insistence that he could only take ONE penny, that any more than one was STEALING.  The fuck?  Yeah, he had enough to pay for it but getting 98 cents back... it was better for _everyone_ if he just used the two pennies! 

And okay, well... now that he saw himself on the video he could kind of understand why someone might think he was a menace to the public what with the way he drew himself up taller and waved his arms around and kept pointing at the clerk and, uh... maybe insulted him a little. Still.  The guy had hurled just as many insults back at him and if he had any stones at all he wouldn’t have called the cops.   

It took three officers to haul him out of there which was ALSO an overreaction, because he let them cuff him without protest, let them lead him out of there without incident. It just... alright, it looked bad, even he knew that, though he ALSO knew that he hadn’t really done anything wrong.  Judge Tarth surely knew, too, but when the video finally faded to black she turned to him with that same hard, disapproving look.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he tried again, more pitiful than before, less insistent than before, but Judge Tarth was already bent over her desk scribbling at papers.

“I’m giving you community service. Don’t make that face at me, Sandor Clegane, there are worse things I can do.  One day, eight hours of community service, and this whole thing never happened.  You got it?”

“Yes, your honor.”

\-------

“What the fuck kind of place _is_ this?”

The neighborhood was sprawling- _enormous_ , even- a real country club setting with the big brick homes and tidy landscaping and so. many. Christmas. decorations.  People were walking their dogs on winding sidewalks, children playing in grassy areas, and he was starting to get an idea of what he was walking into- spoiled brats and drunk moms and dads who stood in the corner and compared golf scores.  He was sick just thinking about it. 

It took fifteen minutes to find the building he was looking for and even that was too big to be real, another massive brick structure covered in lights and garlands and ribbons and shit, the parking lot empty except for one pink car and a few piles of old gray snow.

Sandor strode up to the club house wearing ripped jeans, a faded black t-shirt, and the meanest expression he could muster; he left the infernal garment bag in the truck. It was alright; he’d be alright.  Anyone with functioning brain cells could see he was the wrong person for this little assignment so he had little doubt that he’d be gone before anyone else even got there.

The inside was already well into preparations for a party, garish decor strewn about as if Rudolph himself had gone on a bender and vomited Christmas everywhere. A nightmare, really.  The music blaring from an iPhone wasn’t helping things at all, but he didn’t see anyone and was starting to think the place was deserted and for good reason. 

“Sansa Stark?” he called to the empty room.

“That’s me,” a voice sang out brightly and a girl stood up from behind a table and... oh. He had thought it would be someone older.  Dowdier.  But... maybe this was better.  Someone young and less experienced would be far easier to press to his advantage, and as she approached him, dubious and wary, he was absolutely certain that this would all be over very very soon.

_That’s right, little girl. Take a good long look._

“Are you Mr. Clegane?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“I am,” he nodded. “And I think we both know this isn’t gonna work, so how about you just sign my form and I’ll get out of your hair?”

He held out his paper and pen but she ignored it, just looked him over in the same way he was looking her over cause... damn. She may be his warden for the day but even a blind man could see how pretty she was, even in those ratty old blue jeans and the ugliest Christmas sweater he had ever seen.  For a heartbeat he hoped she wouldn’t even notice how truly hideous he looked, but judging by the way her brows were wrinkled and lips were pressed tight he would say it was too late for that.  She was no different than anyone else, it would seem, and he really didn’t expect otherwise.  Besides- he _wanted_ her to notice his scars, wanted her to excuse him from this charade.

“Where’s your costume?” she asked after many long seconds.

“Yeah, about that…”

Alright, if his face alone wasn’t enough to make her change her mind then seeing him in costume definitely would and mere moments later he was changed and standing in front of her, waiting for her to draw the obvious conclusion. The thing was cut for fat men, of course, so he had plenty of room across his middle, but his arms and back were stretching the fabric to near absurd lengths.  Not to mention that the pants only went to the middle of his shins.  The girl was eyeing him, shaking her head and pursing her lips, clearly displeased with his appearance.  Good. 

“Well, I can’t do anything about the shoulders.”

“Right, see? Why bother?  So if you’ll just sign my community service form saying I was here...”

“It’s not _bad_ , though,” she continued as if he hadn’t said anything.  “The kids won’t notice.  Just gotta fix the length cause you look ridiculous.”

He couldn’t help but bristle at that remark even though he knew it was true. But... the _costume?_ He was trying to show her what a terrible horrible choice he was for this gig, kept turning his face so that she could get an eyeful of his scars, leaning in to get her attention, but she was apparently too stupid to care. 

He glanced at his watch. 30 minutes down; 450 more to go.

“Now, where did I put that...” she mumbled to herself, tapping her chin with one long finger, and soon she was rummaging through box after box and singing carols to herself while he just watched, useless. “Have you ever been a Santa before?”

“No,” he snapped, harsher than entirely necessary, because if his face wasn’t enough, and his costume wasn’t enough, then he was going to have to rely on his sparkling personality to weasel his way out of this community service. “It’s a pretty tough gig, huh?”

“It’s fun, actually,” she smiled. “You’ll see.”

He drew himself up even taller showing her what he hoped was a murderous glare. “I’m just saying that it seems like the kind of job that needs just the right kind of person.”

“Sure does!” she agreed. “So you’ll just sit right here in this chair and wait for them to come to you.  Some of the kids might need help getting into your lap, just so you’re aware, but after that you’ll just ask them if they’ve been good and what they’re hoping to get under the tree and that sort of thing.”

He shook his head at her while she sashayed over to another box- still singing!- relentlessly cheerful and very annoying. What was there to be so cheerful about, being stuck here putting on a party for a bunch of whiney brats with a Santa that was clearly wrong for the part?  At least this girl was friendly, though; he supposed the dowdy frowny woman he had imagined he’d be working with would have been worse. 

“Finally!” she huffed to herself, pulling out a roll of white fabric and a small box with ‘sewing kit’ scrawled across the side. She had a sewing kit.  Of course she did. 

“I’m just gonna add some faux fur to the bottom and then it’ll be fine,” she announced, going to her knees in front of him, face at crotch-level and hands tugging at his pant legs. _Fuck._

“Careful down there,” he leered. “Don’t want to lose an eye.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, blinking innocently up at him. _Double fuck._

 “Nothing.” 

 _She’s annoying,_ he reminded himself, blocking out the sight of her head bobbing around and the happy little humming sounds she made. _So annoying._    He stood sorta-patiently while she added the fur, chirping on and on and _on_ about how this was a rental so she couldn’t do anything permanent and didn’t want to damage it or she would lose the deposit so she’d have to make safety pins work unless he was okay with straight pins and blahdy blah blah blah. 

After what felt like an inordinately long time she finally stood and gathered the rest of the fur, tucking it all away as she examined her work.

“That’s much better,” she said, nodding at her own words. “But you should go clean your shoes up, Santa would _never_ wear such dingy things.” 

_What the..._

“Look, I _really_ don’t think I’m the right guy for the part,” he tried again, spelling it out for her this time.

“Nah, you’ll be fine,” she dismissed, patting his arm as if to reassure him and that was _not_ okay.  He didn’t need any of her reassurances; he wasn’t _afraid_ of playing the part, he just didn’t _feel_ like playing the part.   

And yet there he was, scrubbing his boots in the bathroom just cause she told him to. Next time he was in front of Judge Tarth he’d beg for prison instead.  Or death.  He glanced at his watch; 60 minutes down.  He didn’t think he could handle seven more hours of this.

“Mr. Clegane?” she called as soon as he emerged from the bathroom. “Do you want to help me with these lights?”

 _No,_ he grumbled to himself.   

 _Yes!_ his brain countered, and he lumbered over and took the lights she held out to him, almost against his will. 

After the lights came what looked to be 75 miles of green and silver tinsel, billions of snowflakes that had to be hung from the ceiling, a few more ornaments for the top part of the tree, re-arranging tables and chairs, then rearranging them again. And every decoration that went up, every minute that ticked by, he could not escape the talking or singing or laughing cause it never ever ceased.  It was _exhausting_ , and the aggressive attitude he’d started with wore quickly down to silent pouting. 

“What’s your tree like,” she asked after giving him way too much information about the 4.5 foot pre-lit blue spruce with hand-made bows and cranberry-garland she had set up in her own apartment. That she got from Hobby Lobby.  On sale.

“Don’t have one.”

“You do celebrate Christmas, right?”

“I don’t _not_ celebrate Christmas,” he shrugged.  “I just don’t care.”

“Do you have plans for the holidays?”

“No.”

“You don’t go see your family and stuff?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“No.”

“Any holiday traditions at all?”

“Look, if I tell you there’s no such thing as Santa will you leave me the fuck alone?”

He meant it sarcastically, a snide commentary on her holly jolly spirit, but even to his own ears it sounded bitter and for just a heartbeat he felt a little guilty about yelling at her. She was just being friendly.  But then he caught the way she was eying him with something a little too close to pity and the guilt yielded quickly to anger. 

“Well, _I_ always go see the Nutcracker, thanks for asking,” she continued before he could say anything, deftly sweeping away the awkward moment.  “I’ve been going every year since I was a little girl, even got to be in it once in elementary school.  I used to dream of being the Sugar Plum Fairy but didn’t stick with ballet long enough to ever really...”

God, she never stopped talking. What was _with_ this girl?  Even when his answers were rude and a little sarcastic they just rolled right off the impenetrable armor of her cheer, bolstered by the joyful Christmas carols that blared endlessly from her phone.

He glanced at his watch. Two hours in; six to go.

“Okay, let’s go ahead and do your beard since that’s gonna take a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your beard,” she repeated, holding up a box and giving him the same baffled look he was giving her.

Shit, he forgot about the damn beard. Well, that sort of explained why she wasn’t so concerned about his face.  He’d just have to bump up his assholiness and make her see reason. 

“I can do the fucking beard myself,” he growled loudly, but she barely batted an eyelash.

“It’s very expensive and kind of tricky, I really think it’s best I do it.”

“What’s so hard about putting on a beard,” he demanded, voice louder and meaner since she didn’t seem to notice last time. Didn’t seem to notice this time, either, what with the way she pulled out a chair and patted on the seat, showing him a very patient, very resilient, very annoying smile.

He had to admit she was right, though, once she produced the shockingly realistic replica of Santa’s facial hair and small bottle of spirit gum. He lacked the dexterity to handle something so intricate, he _knew_ that, and sat mostly-silent and entirely-sullen while she got to work.

“The beard is very important, Mr. Clegane, more important than the costume. If the beard looks fake then you’ll never be able to pull off the illusion.”

The words were innocuous and muttered softly, but having her hands on him- on the very worst part of him- was pissing him off something awful.

“Would you stop with the ‘Mr. Clegane’ bullshit?”

“What would you prefer I call you?” she asked, looking down at him then with those Pollyanna eyes, wholesome face cocked to the side as if sincerely interested in his answer.

“Santa.”

She lit up at that like he’d just said something delightful, clearly oblivious to the fact that he was mocking her and hell, what was the point if she didn’t even notice?

He watched her peel off a false eyebrow from the plastic- he hadn’t thought about eyebrows- and clenched his jaw when she placed it gently across the scarred side of his face, fingers lightly pressing and smoothing the skin above his eye. The other side was easier- for him, at least- and as soon as she was done with it she took several steps back and examined the result.

“You look great!”

“Pretty sure you’re lying.”

Except he was pretty sure she _wasn’t_ lying.  Everything about her screamed sincerity, from the breathless giddiness in her tone to the way she clutched her hands together under her chin, finishing with those sparkling hearts in her eyes.  She was the cartoon version of honesty; he really had no choice but to believe her. 

And it didn’t really matter if she thought he _looked_ good, cause he _felt_ like a moron, standing there patting his padded belly with face covered in fluff.  It was ridiculous!  If Judge Tarth thought she was scaring him straight with this bullshit then... actually, she was definitely scaring him straight.  No way he’d subject himself to one of her sentences ever again, that bitch. 

He looked at his watch; two and a half hours down.

“All right, my turn,” the girl announced and grabbed a garment bag from the back of a chair. “Be right back.”

She was changing, good; he didn’t want to be the only dork in a costume. But when she came swishing out of the bathroom in some soft sparkly red-and-white striped dress, hair wavy and lips painted red, he just gaped at her, unsure if he was disappointed or… something else. 

 _“That’s_ what you’re wearing?”

“What’s wrong with it?” she demanded; or _almost_ demanded, polite as she was.

“I guess I just assumed you’d be Mrs. Claus or something.”

“I can’t be _Mrs. Claus_ , they already know me.”

“So?”

“If I tell them I’m Mrs. Claus they’ll know I’m _lying_ and then they won’t believe you’re Santa.”  She explained it to him slowly, with that tone of voice that meant she thought he was a complete fucking idiot for not already deducing the same.

“Sorry,” he grumbled sarcastically. “I don’t have much experience with lying to children.”

“Oh yeah? How old are the people you _usually_ lie to?”

_Smart ass._

At this point it was pretty obvious he wasn’t going to be getting out of his punishment, but he tried to look on the bright side- maybe a rich place like this served alcohol at their parties. Or maybe some bored housewife would want to take Santa for a spin.  Maybe the girl would even warm up to him.  Whoa, what was he thinking? 

“You wanna do the star?” she asked, holding up the sequined decor in question.

He heaved a loud, irritated groan, doing his best to let her know just how put out he was by the (admittedly very simple) request, but when he looked down at her she was regarding him with those same vacant eyes. Poor thing.  How did she make it this far in life too dumb to know when someone was being a jerk to her? 

“Yeah, alright,” he sighed, taking the star from her hand and easily placing it on top of the tree, and after the task was done he took a step back and nodded in approval. “Looks good.”

He said it blandly, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be acting like an asshole and not handing out compliments even if the tree _did_ look good.  Glancing down at her, she looked just as surprised as he felt.  How funny it was that he couldn’t rattle her with his piss-poor attitude but managed to startle her with a compliment. 

“Thanks,” she muttered, then wandered over to the table to spread out silverware. He looked at his watch; almost three hours now.   

“So… what do you want me to do?”

“Go wait out back by the ladder,” she answered without looking up.

“The ladder?”

“Yeah, and when you’re ready, just come down the chimney.” She waved one hand absently towards the corner and Sandor turned to see a fireplace and... come down the chimney?  That was… well, the fireplace was clean, that was good.  And not currently in use, that was better.  But it looked so _small,_ and when he turned back to her, working up a protest, he was instead faced with the sight of her choking back laughter.  “You should see the look on your face.”

“That’s not funny.” It was a _little_ funny.  And he was sorely tempted to slide down the chimney just to fuck with her, but with his luck he’d get stuck and die and scare the kids and Judge Tarth would never let him hear the end of it.  “What do you _really_ want me to do?”

“Ah... you could practice your ‘ho ho hos,’” she suggested unhelpfully, the words trailing off into giggles and okay, yeah, _that_ was funny.  He couldn’t help but laugh along with her- a surprise to both of them, for sure- but he just couldn’t believe that she would fuck with him like that.  And laugh with him like that.  And look at him like... _that,_ with eyes open and fully aware of what he was and what he wasn’t but still smiling and happy and pleased to make his acquaintance.  Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing in the world that she was cheerful all the damn time; maybe if she hadn’t stuck him inside a Santa suit he would think she wasn’t so bad.  But he _was_ stuck inside a Santa suit and couldn’t help but feel annoyed about it, and soon enough the laughter had died and they were standing in awkward silence again.

“Oh, they’re here!” she exclaimed suddenly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You excited?”

He had a sarcastic, mean, hateful comment ready to go with that question, but as luck would have it he just happened to look out the window to where a bus for Baelor the Blessed Hospital Systems was already unloading passengers and the complaint died on his lips. Kids.  Of course it was kids, he knew it would be kids, but... he never thought it would be kids on crutches, kids dragging IV towers, kids in casts or bandages or wheelchairs. 

It was like being underwater the way everything slowed, sounds echoing oddly in his brain as guests started filing in the door wearing their most festive clothes, ruffles and corduroy and sparkly tulle, reds and greens and navy blues. The girl seemed to know all of them, calling adults and children alike by name and giving a hug to everyone.  He raised a hand sort of stupidly when they looked in his direction then somehow, someway that he wasn’t aware of, he was sitting in the chair she had set up for him and it was time for this show to get going.

And he was _nervous_ , scared out of his mind that the lie would be discovered, worried that some snot-nosed kid would sniff out the truth, but then Sansa was leading a limping little boy forward and a pair of wide brown eyes were staring up at him with not one trace of fear or suspicion, only complete and utter wonder.

“Santa?”

And he was lost.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Never did he think he’d be so thoroughly defeated by a bunch of little kids but there they were, staring up at him, and what was he supposed to do? Yell at them?  Make them feel like shit?  That might be his standard M.O. for interacting with other people but with these kids it seemed he had lost his stomach for it.

There were two nurses, a lot of parents, and seventeen children in total though not all of them wanted to sit on Santa’s lap. Guess they weren’t believers.  And turned out, it was easier than he thought it would be to play the part of the man he looked like, the man they expected him to be; their eyes made it possible, _her_ eyes made it possible, and he hated it and appreciated it equally. 

“Do you need a break, Santa?”

The question was murmured hot into his ear at the same time her hand landed like a little bird on his shoulder, heavier than he would have thought for such a wisp of a girl and way, _way_ too close.

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

He nodded, too afraid to speak and absolutely certain he was imagining the spark in her eyes.   For the half-second it took for her to move away he thought about hauling her into his lap, pushing his luck, but the following second had him taking a deep breath and refocusing his attention to the next child in line. 

“I like your dress,” he told the tiny girl with scars covering her hands and arms, scars he understood all too well. He didn’t know how she got them but he knew what they felt like, and he listened extra hard to her list of wishes while her mother took pictures.

It was over faster than he would have thought but the children stayed near, even when they were gabbing about video games and chomping on cookies and mostly ignoring him. Didn’t bother him, though, not even a little.   The kids had issues, that was for sure, but they were still just kids and sort of easy to understand, even for a prick-in-disguise like him. 

“How about we close with a few Christmas carols?” Sansa asked, raising a brow at him in challenge.

He did _not_ sing- he had some standards after all- but she didn’t ask it of him, either, just handed him some jingle bells, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary when they met his.  Which was enough, he supposed, to get him to wave that silly jingly stick around, enough to let a kid sit in his lap, enough to clap and tap his not-that-dingy-anymore boot along with the music. 

A heartbeat later he was out on the sidewalk, watching the bus drive away and waving a gloved hand like this was the most natural thing in the world and not some farce he’d been forced into. When he finally turned back to Sansa she was watching him, smiling, magnifying the warm feeling that had settled under his skin the first time a kid sat in his lap.

“Come on,” she said, motioning him inside. “Let’s take off your beard.”

And the warm feeling was gone.

“I can do it myself,” he snapped, growlier than he intended, but the stern _oh-no-you-can’t_ look she cast over her shoulder silenced any further protest.

“Did you surprise yourself?” she asked, pulling a chair over to the table. He didn’t answer, just meekly sat in the place she indicated while she took her spot in front of him; he would guess by that knowing smile on her lips that she didn’t really _need_ him to answer.

She immediately lost herself in her task, bright blue eyes examining the beard and formulating a plan of attack; he forced himself to relax when she went for the left side first. Fuck, she was _so_ pretty, with her smooth blemish-free skin and shiny auburn hair... probably used to getting hit on all the time, and by men much better than him.  That sparkly red-and-white dress wasn’t helping things at all, not with the way it stretched and clung to her breasts whenever she raised her arms.  Like she kept doing.  He should probably stop staring at her chest.  Or hell, staring was okay, wasn’t it?  Just had to distract her so she didn’t notice. 

“You live in this neighborhood?”

“No,” she laughed, perfect little nose wrinkling as if the question were ridiculous. “One of the patients- his parents own a home in here and they get me access to the clubhouse.  Thank goodness, since I don’t have the budget for a venue rental.  It’s really nice, right?”

It _was_ really nice, but peeling the beard away meant peeling the character away and he just couldn’t find it in himself to agree with her.

“Which one?”

“Which one what?”

“Which of the kids lives in this neighborhood?”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t here today. He’s.... passed.”

She turned her attention to his right side, gently working a corner of the beard away like the conversation was nothing to her, but her tone was a little too light, her words a little too simple. He knew better.  The deep breath and the hard swallow meant she was affected by this boy who had... passed... but didn’t want to show it, hid the bad things inside the same way he hid the good things.  It was a familiar tactic, the same one he used, to speak dismissively of something when he didn’t want to speak of it at all. 

“So how is it you had this big party planned but didn’t have a Santa lined up?” he asked, just to change the subject.

“I _did_ have a Santa lined up.”

“You did?” he squinted at her. “What happened?”

“Apparently, she got someone to take her place.”

It took several long seconds to understand her meaning.

 _“Judge Tarth_ was going to be your Santa?  Of all the sneaky, underhanded…”

“I thought it was brilliant. I mean, I knew she was dreading it but didn’t realize just how much until she sent someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” he growled defensively, pulling away on reflex. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He _knew_ what it meant, of course; and he had wanted her to notice before, had been annoyed when she hadn’t, but he’d started to think maybe it was no big deal, to her or anyone else, and to have that feeling yanked away... fuck.  He was wrong, as usual, and now he _needed_ to hear her say it: 

Someone ugly. Someone too fucking big.  Someone scarred and scary.  

She didn’t say any of that, though.

“Well... you’re kind of an asshole.”

“Oh,” he said stupidly, blinking in surprise. “Didn’t think you noticed.”

“You’ve been rubbing it in my face since you got here, I’d have to be a complete idiot not to notice. Oh, I see.”  She leaned back and looked him hard in the eyes.  “You think I’m a complete idiot.”

“Well you never even reacted…”

“The way you wanted me to? Please, I’ve dealt with plenty of assholes before, you ain’t my first.”  She waggled a finger in front of him, smirking at his stunned expression, then resumed her torturous attention to his face.  “You’re just lucky I was stuck with you, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered being nice.”

Well damn, now he just felt like a moron; she wasn’t stupid at all! She went head-to-head against him in this little battle of wills, used her courtesies to break him down, and not only did it work but he didn’t even realize she was doing it.  She _won_ , fair and square; hell, he could _respect_ her for that. 

“All done,” she hummed softly, fingers running lightly over his brows, the burned and the whole, different than before in some way he couldn’t name. “And thank you for your service, I... the kids really enjoyed it.”

_Thank you for your service..._

Guilt was not an emotion he typically bothered with, his past being unchangeable and the people he’d hurt mostly deserving it anyway, but guilt was definitely what he was feeling watching the girl put away that damnable beard.   This wasn’t your regular, run-of-the-mill community service where he could bitch his way through picking up trash on the side of the road; this was supposed to be about making kids happy.  Not a bad gig, really, not when he thought about it, to give a few hours of his time for a memory others could cling to forever, and for the first time he realized how incredibly infantile he’d been behaving, coming here with every intention of acting like a dick.

She was gathering trash off the table when he approached her with form in hand, much like when he first got there but less bully, more coward.

“Uh… my community service is supposed to be eight hours, and I’ve only done five and a half.”

“Oh. Well.  Close enough, right?  I think you’ve fulfilled the _spirit_ of Judge Tarth’s punishment.”  She shrugged and smiled at him, almost shy, and reached for the form.

“Yeah,” he agreed, pointedly ignoring her outstretched hand. “Or… I could help clean up.”

The hand dropped slowly back down to her side, eyes flitting all over his face, and he thought for just a second she would say no, sign his form and send him away.

“I’d appreciate that,” she said softly, turning her head to hide her smile though she hadn’t bothered hiding her smiles before.

He didn’t change, helped her clean up in a white undershirt and a pair of red velvet stretch pants that were, unfortunately, really fucking comfortable; even the My Little Pony-esque faux fur cuffs did nothing to dissuade him from wearing them. She didn’t change, either, but did slip her shoes and stockings off, giving her a sort of half-wild air that was more adorable than he wanted to admit.

There was something surreal about un-decorating a Christmas tree the week before Christmas, even for a jaded asshole like him, lights going off instead of on, tinsel coming down instead of up. And the whole time she talked about anything and everything, movies on the Hallmark channel and traffic jams near the mall and do you think we’ll have a white Christmas cause I sure love white Christmases.  Something about her incessant chatter was messing with him, the way she would pause and look at him and wait for an answer, nod her head at every gruff reply, then keep on chirping like this was easy for her.    

“I got it, shorty,” he told her when she couldn’t quite reach the star at the top of the tree.

“No one ever calls me short,” she laughed and he could see why, now that she pointed it out, could see that she was shorter than him but taller than most and even _that_ was messing with him, had him thinking it was a good thing though what made it a good thing he couldn’t say.

“So… all those kids stay at Baelor’s?” he asked just for the hell of it as he wrestled the fake tree back into its box.

“No, just some of them. The others are already recovered and home but come back for special events like this one.  It’s nice for them to be around friends.  They understand each other.”

“And you? Where do you fit in?”

“It’s… hard to explain,” she said without looking.

“Okay.”

She didn’t say anything at all to that, stood silent and still like she was gathering her thoughts, finding just the right words. He waited, just as silent and just as still, for her answer.

“It was… six years ago. My brother was trying to jump into the pool from the roof of our house.  Yeah, he’s an idiot.  He missed the pool and wound up in intensive care, right before Christmas.  He’s fine now-   I mean, he’s in a wheelchair but otherwise he’s fine- but at the _time_ we weren’t sure he was gonna make it.  I practically lived in the ICU, waiting for him to wake up.  And there were all these kids, so many different kids with different ages and different diagnoses, and it was Christmas, but no one was _doing_ anything for them.  Like, ‘you can’t celebrate, you’re sick.’  Other kids were out ice skating and going to the Nutcracker and sitting on Santa’s knee but these kids... _weren’t._ It seemed really unfair.”

“Unfair that they couldn’t feel special?”

“It’s not about feeling special, it’s about feeling normal,” she huffed and rolled her eyes, a little hyperdramatic but also a little… logical. It actually _was_ about feeling normal, blending in with everyone else, doing what everyone else did, _not_ getting stared at for all the wrong reasons.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just do it at the hospital?”

“Well, yeah,” she agreed. “It’s harder this way, but at least they can escape for a while, get out and remember they’re regular kids doing what regular kids do.  We tried taking them to the mall one year but… that was a disaster.  Everyone tried to be nice but they were just so _patronizing_ , you know?  They don’t want that; they just want the same things _every_ little kid wants.”

“So you give it to them.”

She looked up sharply, eyes searching him for signs of mockery though he showed her none. “I try.”

The last of the decorations were down, the floor vacuumed and lights off, the last box in the trunk of her car and he was standing in front of her once again, form in hand. That was it.  Once she signed her name at the bottom he could walk away and never think about any of this ever again, just like he hoped.   He made no move to give her the damn pen, though, and she made no move to take it, the two of them bound by something neither would address, and it was just confusing enough to mess with his head and make him think maybe he had a chance. 

“Do you… wanna get a drink or something?”

“We’re in the middle of suburbia,” she laughed. “Unless you want to hit a 7-11 then I’d say drinks aren’t really feasible.”

“Right,” he agreed. “Dumb idea anyway.”

 _Really_ dumb.  What was he thinking?  There was no way in hell he’d ever score a date with a girl like her, who didn’t shy away from his scars, who didn’t put up with his crap, who already understood something he’d never even been able to put into words.  Too good to be true, really.  And _definitely_ too good for a beast like him.

“My apartment is right around the corner,” she said, waving senselessly behind her. “You could… just come over for a drink.” 

Way too good.

“I’m an ex-con, twice your size, a complete stranger, and you want me to come over to your place for drinks?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Well, that was just incredibly stupid, absolutely naïve and foolish and unsafe, and as much as he wanted to tell her she should be making smarter decisions, the thing he wanted even more was standing right in front of him, biting her lip and glancing shyly through her lashes.

“Lead the way.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HO HO HO, Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> Ok, I'm late. I had company show up 5 days before they said they would and that put a bit of a crimp in the writing plans. But here it finally is, hope you like it!

_‘Right around the corner’_ meant literally right around the corner, the apartment complex tucked neatly on the edge of this obscenely lavish neighborhood, and soon he was standing in her kitchen and watching her rummage around in the cupboard below the sink. 

“Alright, so, your choices are Kahlua, Bailey’s, RumChata, Frangelico, or… ButterShots.”

”Ugh. It’s a chick’s liquor cabinet.”

“First of all- of course it is,” she huffed, shooting him a look over her shoulder that would have been stern if not for the smile. “Second of all- ‘chick?’  What is this, the 1950s?”

“What’s wrong with ‘chick?’”

“Do I look like a bird to you?”

“Your mouth is moving, all I hear is _‘peep peep peep.’”_

“Ha ha, very funny. What do you want?”

What did he want? Oh hell, he could not think about what he wanted, not with her on her knees, smiling up at him, a spark of something in her eyes that said he could interpret the question however he liked, and the beginning of a hard-on he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

“I don’t care, just hand me something.”

She did, handed him the first thing she reached for, which turned out to be… ButterShots. Shit. 

The girl was all flutter after that, pouring herself a drink, turning on the tree lights, turning off some of the other lights, shooing the cat into her bedroom... _Lucky cat._

“Why don’t you go ahead and get comfortable,” she suggested, tone light and frothy and eyes focused on the antiquated stereo she had tucked in a corner, Christmas music swelling softly and suddenly. ‘Get comfortable?’  He hadn’t thought that was part of the plan but he wasn’t going to argue; he took a seat at the far end of her sofa, grateful that his scars would be towards the wall. 

Time slowed, or sped, he didn't know, only knew that it was surprisingly easy to just sit with her and talk, to answer her questions, to make her laugh at things that weren’t really all that funny, or to ogle her whenever she wasn’t looking. Even _not_ talking was easy.  Usually the silence made people twitchy and desperate to fill the air with whatever drivel fell out of their mouths, but she seemed entirely comfortable whether they were speaking or not. 

“So how do you know Judge Tarth?” he asked after a long pull of liquid sugar.  

“She’s a friend of my mom’s. How do _you_ know Judge Tarth?”

“Long story.”

“Some other time, then,” she hummed, and if _that_ wasn’t loaded with meaning then he didn’t know what was.

For a girl completely alone with an untrustworthy asshole she sure did seem confident, the kind of confidence that comes from being perpetually pretty. And she was definitely pretty.  And smart, and pretty, and kind, and very very pretty.  Surely she wasn’t single.

“So, uh… you sure your boyfriend will be ok with you having a guy over for drinks?” Damn that was smooth, sweet and smooth just like this butterscotch schnapps, but when he glanced up for her answer she looked like she was choking back laughter and that familiar anger came roaring to the surface.  “What’s so funny?”

“Your cheesy question.”

“Hey, I was just making conversation,” he growled defensively.

“No, you weren’t.”

No, he wasn’t. “You’re not gonna answer?”

She heaved an exaggerated sigh, eyes rolling to the heavens as if the question itself was too great a burden to handle. “I don’t _have_ a boyfriend.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t,” she shrugged, a subtle lift of shoulders. “Do I need to worry about your jealous girlfriend banging on my door?”

“Not even a little.”

“Well, then… our non-existent significant others don’t know what they’re missing.”

“No they don’t.”

She raised her glass to him in toast and he tapped it with his bottle, the sharp _ping_ of glass on glass humming when they lifted their drinks in unison, swallowed in unison, drifted back into that not-uncomfortable silence in unison. 

“What _are_ they missing?” she asked after a long moment had passed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… when you take a girl out… what’s it like?”

He took another gulp from the bottle while he thought her words over.  “Depends on the girl.”

“Ok, then, just for an example…" She took a deep breath, one pale hand drifting up and through her hair then coming to rest under her chin. "Let’s say it’s a girl like me. What do we do?”

What would they do?  Something nice.  Something she’d always wanted to do.  They’d go someplace classy and elegant and smart and pretty and do whatever she wanted, anything at all, and it would be the best date she had ever been on.  And he had not even one clue as to what that might be.

“Guess.”

That must have been the wrong answer cause she _laughed_ at him, just as jingly and joyful as the bells she’d made him ring earlier, and he cursed the damn ButterShots for fucking with his head and making him misread _everything._    But then she was turning on the sofa and tucking her feet up under her, wrinkling her brows like she was deep in thought and inching just a bit closer though he pretended not to notice.

“You pick me up in a town car,” she said firmly; he snorted.

“Sure you don’t want a stretch limo?”

“It’s generous of you to offer, but the expense is unnecessary. A town car with a driver will be just fine.”

“How very understanding.”

“Rooftop lounge for hors d’oeuvres and drinks,” she continued breezily. “You complain, of course, because you’re hungry for more than hors d’oeuvres.”

“But you tell me to quit my whining.”

“And you do,” she smirked as if pleased by his addition; one finger tapped her chin while she searched her imagination for more details. “You take me to the theater.  Orchestra seats.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“It is. But you’re a generous man, I say so all the time.”

“And it’s worth it, cause you like it.” The answer surprised her, he knew, could tell by the upward quirk of her brow and softening of her expression; it surprised him, too, but he hoped he wasn’t as obvious about it.  “One more drink after the show.”

“Then you take me home.” She said it firmly, punctuated in a way that let him know this was the _end_ of the pretend date and he’d better be on his best behavior. 

“You invite me in for coffee,” he continued cause he never did know when to shut up, and for some reason... she let him win.

“But I’ve stocked my liquor cabinet with dude drinks so you have scotch instead.”

“You have some, too.”

“You make fun of the faces I make because I don’t like the taste.”

She pressed her lips together, wetting them, head tilting into a waiting hand like she was _daring_ him to continue... definitely flirting.  One half of him said to tread lightly, to _not_ screw it up with this girl.  The other half- the defeated but more practical half- told him screwing up was inevitable and just to get it over with already.  It wasn’t like any of this was going to ever happen anyway, so what difference did it make if he pressed his luck?

“You offer to go down on me.”

She froze, expression bordering on horrified, pretty much exactly how he imagined she’d react... except for the smile creeping across her face.

“You _decline,”_ she laughed.

“You _insist,”_ he countered.

A hand fluttered up to her mouth, eyes squeezed shut and shoulders shaking, obviously surprised by the direction he took this thing, but it was his turn to be surprised when she dropped her hand, took a deep breath, leaned in just a _little bit_ closer, and said-

“You return the favor.”

“Well I _am_ generous.”

“Very generous, I say so all the time.”

Her voice was still playful but had dropped into something richer, and the little peeks she kept stealing earlier had yielded to this dark but fiery gaze, and when he leaned in just a little more she leaned in _just a little_ more, too.

“You ask me to stay the night.”

“You make breakfast.”

“But you’re too exhausted from hours of horizontal gymnastics to even get out of bed.”

“So you bring it to me.”

“Naked.”

This time she didn’t bother hiding her laughter, let her mirth erupt unhindered in a short burst of giggles that warmed him right through to the core, and he’d never seen anything so adorable, never experienced anything like it. Fuck if that wasn’t the best date he’d never been on.

“Flirty flirty,” she chastised after catching her breath, a little flirty herself. “And they say romance is dead.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad.”

He _really_ never knew when to shut up, cause after that little hint her smile fell, expression suddenly serious and arms curling protectively across her stomach.

“It wouldn’t be like that. I’m not… that’s not really my style.”

 _Regret it already?_ They hadn’t even _done_ anything and there she was, wishing it away; she wouldn’t even _look_ at him she was so ashamed of what they hadn’t done and he couldn’t say it surprised him, couldn’t say he blamed her. 

“Believe it or not, I kinda already knew that,” he muttered as neutral as he was able; he took another swig at the bottle before his traitor mouth ruined it even more.

 _“Some_ of it would be ok,” she conceded.  “The first part.  I’d be ok with that.  Just... not the second part.”

 _“Really?”_ he croaked, voice scratchy, almost squeaky.  Damn ButterShots!  15% alcohol by volume of melted candy disks and it still managed to fuck him up.

“Yeah,” she nodded, dropping her gaze to the ground. “If you wanted.”

Oh, he definitely wanted. All of it.  Any of it.  As much as she was willing to give. 

“Theater, huh?” he asked, reaching one long arm behind him to grab his phone and wallet from the sofa table. Within seconds he had the website open for Visenya Hall, the biggest, most impressive theater in town, named after an old... actually, he had no idea why the hell it was called that, just knew the place was really nice.  Sansa had moved to his side of the couch, hovering over his shoulder so she could watch him scroll through the upcoming events.

“The Winds of Winter!” she exclaimed, hot against his ear

“The fuck is that?”

“It’s… something I’ve been dying to see. I didn’t even know it was touring, I really thought it would _never_ come out.”

The show would only be playing for one night, late in December; he forged ahead, selecting the ‘best seats’ option for two adults and trying to ignore how close she was, how excited she was, how breathless she was.

“Orchestra seats,” he muttered, adding them to the cart. “How about that?”

Shit, as if the tickets weren’t expensive enough, the additional convenience fees were a fucking _rip off._ If she liked it, though.... he hadn’t lied about that part, it would be worth it if she liked it.  He hadn’t lied about any of it, not really, and he had his credit card info typed in and ready so that she would know he meant it, stopping only when his finger was poised over the ‘Complete Purchase’ button.

“Yay or nay?” It was, perhaps, the _lamest_ invitation ever uttered, and her eyes were flitting all over the place, searching him for some sort of hidden meaning.

“No strings?”

“No.”

“No expectations?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Just drinks and a show?”

“And nothing more.”

“Then… yay.”

Two taps later and it was done.

“Show’s at 8, so pick you up around… 6? I’ll take you to that rooftop lounge thing you made up?”  He reached forward to drop his wallet and phone onto her coffee table, feeling oddly satisfied though nothing physical had happened. 

“Yeah, um... ok.”

At first he thought it was an accident when she pressed up to him, thought maybe he’d settled himself a little too heavily onto the sofa and she’d been launched forward against her will. But then her mouth was on him, and her hands were on him, and she was on her knees and pushing harder against him, and there was no way in hell _that_ was an accident. 

In the split second it took for his brain to catch up his instincts had already taken over, hauling her closer with one arm and sliding a rough hand up smooth velvet, over the sharp blades of her rib cage and higher. Her only response was to kiss him harder, to swing a leg over his hips and climb onto his lap. 

 _♫ Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, Ring-ting-tingling too..._ _♫_

One drink, she only had _one drink_ , and even that was mostly milk and ice.  She was in complete control of her faculties, he _knew_ that, but just in case she _wasn’t_ he tried to go slow, tried to give her time to think it through but... she wouldn’t allow it. 

“You taste like butterscotch,” she whispered against his mouth.

She tasted like cinnamon, and cream. And honey, and lemons and pine trees and Christmas and holy fuck her hands were _cold_ where she slid them around the stretchy waistband of his Santa pants.

“Your fingers are freezing.”

“Warm them for me?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“It’s really _not_ my style,” she repeated, but both hands were stroking between his legs so he figured she was making the exception just this once. 

She was remarkably efficient in divesting him of his clothing, had his undershirt off and red pants pooled around his ankles in the absolute most demented location for his Santa costume. His lucky Santa costume.  They hadn’t stopped kissing, or pawing at each other, but while her hands had gone south, his had gone up, caressing her face and tangling into her hair.

_“So hard...”_

Her firm touch became a feather-light one, teasing him, but he held himself still, not wanting her to stop, wanting to feel her, wanting her to feel what she did to him. His own hands were itching to explore but he found himself hesitating, unsure if he was allowed to do to her what she was doing to him; she answered his question before he could ask it, by lifting up onto her knees and reaching for her hem.  The dress joined his undershirt on the floor and he was met with the sight of her completely bare breasts, nothing left on her but bright white underwear dotted with-

“Candy canes.”

“You don’t like them?”

She sounded offended; she _looked_ offended, brows impossibly high and eyes _horrified._ She was practically naked and hovering over him, his arousal straining up between her legs, and _this_ is what she was worried about; somehow that seemed just like her.

“I like them.” And he _did_ like them but took them off of her anyway, had her stand in front of him while he pulled them down with a slide of fingers against skin.  She took two dainty steps out of the garment before climbing back up into his lap, before he could really get a good look at her.   _Some other time, then._

Hair floated over the front of her shoulder, a cascade of auburn that he pushed aside to reveal pale skin beneath, fingers lingering but not staying. Now that he knew it was allowed he couldn’t stop his wandering, hands meandering from the nape of her neck down the ridge of her spine, over the curves of her hips and back up again. 

He couldn’t stop his _mouth_ from wandering, either, lips and tongue ghosting over her chin, down her neck, behind her ear.  A freckle right above her collar bone begged for a kiss and got it; other than that one mark her skin was completely smooth and clear and so very unlike his own.  Her hands were on his head when he kissed his way down to the soft swell of breast, pulled his hair when he gently sucked at her nipple, her throaty little sighs making him suck harder, press the tip between his teeth and his tongue before giving the same attention to the other side.  Jesus, he could kiss her everywhere, could lick every inch of her and still want more, but he was damn near in pain from his own need and had to keep this thing moving forward.

She squealed when he slid her off of him and onto the couch, a happy cry that yielded at once to a hushed moan when his body covered hers. Having her in his lap had been... _incredible_... but this was how he wanted her- on her back, pinned beneath him and surrendered to his control.  They hadn’t even really started yet and he still knew he wouldn’t hold back with her, was already lost to the idea of burying himself in that patch of russet curls, skin against skin and nothing between them...

“Fuck, hold on,” he grumbled when he remembered, hating to put any distance between them but _needing_ to get his wallet, retrieve the gold foil packet, check the expiration date... still good, thank god. 

The same confidence he’d noted earlier was on display, because she didn’t try to hide herself while she waited for him, just watched with curious eyes, one long leg rubbing purposefully against his hip. He couldn’t resist dragging a thumb down there, little circles that drew another gasp out of her; her arms slipped lazily up around him when he returned to his previous spot. 

“So wet...” he teased her since she had teased him; her only response was a warm little smirk that settled oddly in his gut. One drink, she only had _one drink_.  She knew what she was doing, and he wasn’t misreading it, but... he needed to hear her say it.

“Yes?”

The smirk stretched into a smile, warmer than before, and she nodded. “Yes.”

She emphasized her answer by reaching between them, taking him in hand and tugging him down to where she wanted him and he could _not_ question it anymore, pushed into her slow and hard.  She exhaled just as slow and just as hard, eyes fluttering closed for only a second but opening again once he was fully inside, looking a bit dazed but still _looking_ at him.

Turned out he was a liar when he told himself he wouldn’t hold back with her. Instead he found himself going torturously slow, watching her reaction to every move, every push, every pull.  Part of him wanted desperately to close his eyes and just listen to all the little sounds she was making, to drown in the feeling; the other part of him wanted her eyes open, so he kept his open as well.

Not that it was easy. She let him set the pace at first, yes, but eventually she wanted more, planted her heels into the couch and rolled her hips up at his next thrust and... it was so much, so sudden, it punched the air right out of him.  She was _everywhere_ \- her delicate hipbones poking him, fingernails scratching down his back, the squeeze of her making him dizzy, her eyes.... fuck, he wasn’t gonna last long at this rate.

“You’re gonna come for me.” It was an order as much as a plea.

“Yes,” she panted, eyes closing, opening. “Sandor... yes...”

 _That_ did it.  He wouldn’t- _couldn’t_ \- hold back anymore, braced his knees into the cushions and pounded into her with everything he had, both hands twisted in her hair.  God, she was gorgeous, even with a few stray tendrils of hair plastered to her forehead, but her eyes were drifting downward with every rock of his body into hers and threatening to shutter for good.

_“Look at me.”_

For just a heartbeat she seemed startled. For just a heartbeat he was glad of it, glad he could make her give him what he wanted even if she didn’t want to; but then her hands were on his face, light but insistent and pulling him to her, and she whispered-

“No... kiss me.”

-so he did.

The kiss was as hard and deep and passionate as he could make it, sucking up her tiny, shivering whimpers while her fingers dug into his back, showing him what she wanted, taking what he wanted to give her. The couch was shaking almost violently under them, his movements growing wider, wilder, and when at last she cried into his mouth and came she took him along with her, shuddering together into silence.   

 _♫ ... just like the ones I used to know..._ _♫_

It seemed like ages later when his eyes finally blinked open, roused from his stupor by Christmas carols still playing from the stereo. He hadn’t moved, didn’t _want_ to move, not ever, but did prop up best he could on his knees and elbows while her fingers trickled languidly up and down his back.  She smelled good; he hadn’t noticed that before, and his body wanted to do it again just to see if it was different with this new information.  Even now, sated and spent as he was... he wanted more. 

Was it really just this morning when he strode into that clubhouse with a chip on his shoulder? When he met her and thought she was annoying and stupid?  When he kept shoving his paper in her face, insistent that she send him away?  And now... well, _now_ he hoped he could stay, hoped for a little more time, hoped to be something _other_ than the asshole she was stuck with. 

Just had to take care of one little thing.

“Sansa.” He breathed her name in a rasp he hardly recognized, kissed her mouth, her cheek, her eyelid, her ear. 

“Hmm?”

“Will you sign my community service form?”

The couch started shaking again, this time from the force of their laughter.

“Some other time, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed, and kissed her again.

He really did make her breakfast the next morning, and he really did bring it to her in bed. Naked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I think Sansa would at least have vodka in her liquor cabinet, but I really wanted Sandor drinking ButterShots so....  
> 2) Visenya Hall named after Visenya's Hill named after Visenya Targaryen  
> 3) I'm assuming you all know what Winds of Winter is, lol  
> 4) Many thanks to a dear friend who let me bounce my insecurities off of her and helped me plan a direction with this thing  
> 5) And also thanks to sarahcakes613 for helping me hash it out  
> 6) And LadyCyprus, who wanted smut


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